


We Blossom from Dirt

by blitzenprancer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Humanstuck, Implied Self-Harm, Incest, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blitzenprancer/pseuds/blitzenprancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Calliope and Caliborn are orphans, under the care of abusive adoptive parent Doc. Among the cheap furniture, stained carpets, and booze-fueled tirades, the twins are all that each other have. In such close quarters, the adolescents find themselves forced to shrink away from everything else and towards each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Blossom from Dirt

Pale legs wrapped in lime green stripes pranced and pirouetted around a dank, old bedroom. The outdated stereo system in the corner blared an old tune that the girl didn’t recognize, but she didn’t mind. The CD, old and scratched, was found down an alley out back of her shoddy apartment complex. The label was too scratched and worn to read, but it didn’t matter. The girl had always wanted music of her own. The bottom of the disc fared none too much better than the top, causing a majority of the fifteen tracks placed on it to skip and stutter disruptively. The twelfth song on the album, especially, was little more than silence and what sounded like a girl screaming. Or perhaps that was what it was meant to sound like? With it being in such a state of disrepair, the girl could hardly tell what genre the music was meant to be. Regardless, she played it loudly every time her caretaker went out, without fail. It was her solace. Her happy place.

Sat in the corner of the room, another child, not fourteen years of age, sat scribbling in a worn out notebook. The thing looked like it had been pilfered out of a puddle, which, remarkably, it had. The pages waved and browned where dirty water had seeped into the cellulose. The boy, torso and wrists wrapped in a worn and faded red pullover, twitched the pen in his hand rhythmically to move it across the page. Elegantly inked strokes were for the posh, which this boy was not. He instead opted to make images through the repeated etching of straight lines in stair-step formation. It wasn’t orthodox, but there was nowhere he would’ve learned that. It’s not like he could’ve gotten permission from his father for an art class. Art was a waste of time. Music and dance were a waste of time. Any good boy or girl should know that. 

Calliope and Caliborn were not good children. Not according to Doc. Doc was a man whose relation to the twins was hazy at best. He sometimes shouted at them about how their parents had not wanted them, had left them on a street corner somewhere to die. Some good-for-nothing stoner kid had found the babes and hauled them off to his abode to raise them through childhood. When they hit toddler age, however, he deemed it fit to set them free and that was when Doc came across them and took them in out of the goodness in his heart. Or, that was what Doc would have them believe. Raising a word against his ludicrous tale would earn one a hearty smack right across the face. Sometimes when he hit the booze hard enough he could be heard murmuring something about distant relatives and legalities, but it was hard to make out through the slur. All the kids knew was that they shared a shitty place of living with the self-proclaimed “gentleman” and that it was hell with no foreseeable escape.

The winters were better that these dreadful summers; the kids at least had school to look forward to as an escape from home and homework to look forward to as an excuse to get away from Doc. However, in the blanketed warmth of early June, there were no scheduled activities and no salvation. Their adoptive father rarely even allowed them to leave their home. Their small place consisted of three entire rooms: one musty bedroom with a single bed which the twins shared (to their chagrin), one small, dimmed living room with a cheap tan-striped futon laid out in front of a box-shaped television, stained carpet shifting to dented linoleum under a kitchenette, and one critter-infested bathroom with a cramped shower and no bathtub. The cabinets in the kitchenette were filled with little food and much booze. Doc had a best friend, and his name was Jägermeister. 

Sure, there were assorted crackers among the bottles, but the young occupants were afraid to reach for them in remembrance of the time that Caliborn got his ass beaten on the false accusation of attempting to steal a swig of alcohol when in actuality he just wanted a mint from the back shelf. Thus, the children stayed far away from any nourishment that was not delivered to their door. 

“It’s too hot to eat anyway,” Caliborn would say stubbornly. His sister knew better. She knew that his indomitable spirit was easily crushed with a ragged voice and a leather belt. Many times he had thought it a good idea to stand up to the tyrant, spitting poison in his words, rebellion on his breath. Yet time and time again he was forced to cower and whine repentance as knuckles met his cheeks or snaps of material met his back. Calliope didn’t know why he still tried. Nothing good came of his struggle. In her mind, she was the wise one; always obeying Doc’s commands when he gave them and sitting quietly through his rants and rampages. The girl had not stood up for herself once. She would close her eyes and repeat a mantra in her head: Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. Patience is virtue. 

Once they were of age, her and her brother would get out. They would get out and leave this apartment, this town, this entire state. No sentimentalities would be wasted on their adolescent years. That’s what Calliope dreamt of, anyways. It was more likely that the jobless orphans would be kicked out flat on their rumps the moment they turned into legal adults. Her hateful brother would thank the gods that he could finally get away from his weakling of a sister, and leave her as well. Calliope would be left alone, no money, no job experience, and no help from strangers for a wandering street urchin. 

Caliborn hated his sister’s guts. Anyone who would be willing to peek into their lives for a brief five minutes could see it was so. Every time her bare feet got within a two-foot radius of the boy, he would lean back exaggeratedly and make a face like someone had vomited on his hoodie. The girl paid no mind to him. She was much too used to his rude gestures to react to them. Yet, she couldn’t help it if they still stung a little. She had always been fond of her brother. Too fond, probably, considering his attitude. Of course, they still fought as any siblings would. During these spats, any affection that she felt would be chained and locked up tight within her chest. Oh yes, she could get just as nasty as him, especially when it came to a brawl. But, when the fights were over and the bruises were setting in, that little box unlocked itself and she found herself worrying for his wellbeing. She sometimes dared to wonder if he had the same sort of compartment squirreled within himself. Maybe underneath all the animosity there was something a little more… amicable? Most days she would push the thought away. But on colder nights, it lingered… 

Calliope longed for love. She was desperate for the love of anyone. She was too shy to approach anyone at their public school, but she had been sweet on a blonde in her fourth period science class. She secretly hoped that they could attend the same high school together as well, not that it would amount to anything. For who could ever love Calliope? To the girl, she was as good as a monstrosity. Being an albino in a city made mostly of the brown and the tan had not been a good way to garner positive attention, let alone make friends. Her hair was always in a frizz, her lips were too thin, and her nose protruded too much. The rest of her body was another matter entirely. Her thin frame nearly wobbled on two toothpick legs, emaciated and riddled with scars from a bleak past. She tried not to think of these things often. If there was anyone who didn’t need to hate themselves more, it would be Calliope. 

Twirling to the haunting melody flowing from the speakers, Calliope’s mind danced far from her troubles. That is, until the sound of the front door slamming reverberated from the air. At once, the small girl dashed to the corner and frantically turned off the CD player before Doc could hear it. In the corner, Caliborn rushed to close his notebook and throw it under the bed before Doc’s thunderous steps could reach their doorway. 

“Cal! Cal, help me!” Calliope hissed, gesticulating towards the closet door with one hand and dragging the stereo system with the other. The man pounding his way towards their room had no idea that the radio usually hidden in their closet was even functional, let alone in regular use. Instead of rushing to his sister’s aide, Caliborn just gave his sister an enraged and incredulous look like it was her fault that their tormentor had returned early from work. Calliope was jostling the closet’s knob when their door swung open. The girl froze in her actions and swiveled her head to face the intruder. Glassy green eyes took in the scene in front of them, before squinting with confusion and irritation. 

“What the fuck is that?” Doc asked, irritated. 

Calliope’s legs trembled underneath her, eyes glued to the figure in the front of the room. Caliborn flitted his gaze between his sister and Doc, waiting for the meltdown. 

“I said,” Doc whispered as light as a snake’s hiss, “what the fuck is that?” 

Doc took a step forward. Calliope’s teeth chattered. He took another step. Her knees knocked together.

“It’s a stereo system.” 

Caliborn stood in the corner of the room. Courage was in his stance, fearlessness in his eyes. 

Doc stopped in his tracks. 

“Why is… the stereo system out?” he asked carefully. 

“I was playing it.” 

“What did I tell you children about music?”

Caliborn paused, shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and stated resolutely: 

“I don’t give a fuck.” 

Doc’s rage meter visibly broiled up and over the top. In just five quickly-placed steps, he reached Caliborn and slapped an open palm across the boy’s left cheek. The teen stood his ground still, further angering the man in front of him. A red collar was grabbed, and its wearer was roughly thrown to the ground. As a grown fist descended upon Caliborn’s youthful face, his sister covered her eyes and pressed her face to the wall. Dull thuds and grunts could be heard from behind her back. Her brother never cried out. Not anymore. 

This was her fault, wasn’t it? She wasn’t fast enough, or strong enough, or brave enough to do anything right under normal circumstances, let alone under such pressure. Calliope was not good enough, and her brother was the one who had to take the punishment for it. A solitary tear leaked from her eye. She tried not to sob. If she sobbed, Doc might notice her. He might come after her. She didn’t want her brother to take the beating, but he was more resilient wasn’t he? She hated herself for thinking like that. She hated herself for being a coward. 

Doc roared obscenities, punctuated by the noise of knuckles and shoe soles meeting with clothed flesh. After thirty full minutes, when his voice had begun to grow raspy and his limbs weary, he gave one final spit onto Caliborn’s back and left the room with none but a muttered “fucking brat.” 

The subsequent silence in the room weighed heavily on its two occupants. Calliope, long past crying, was the first to break the silence. 

“Thank you…” she whispered.

Her brother’s body stayed motionless and hunched on the mildewed brown carpet. She tentatively stepped off of the wall and took small steps toward his form. The only movement that could be seen from Caliborn was the slight rise and fall of his breathing. His twin dropped to her knees and reached her hand out, hesitating for a full second before placing it onto his shoulder blades. She stroked him gently, whispering hushed soothing noises from her parted lips. Caliborn coughed, before rasping out quietly.

“Don’t fucking touch me. You bitch.” 

“Shut up.” She retorted. 

Yes, his words still hurt her. But she was all that he had.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to make this story at least three chapters in length. If anyone wants to leave a comment, I'm fully up for any suggestions with where to take it! Thank you for reading!
> 
> [EDIT:: At this point I think this story works better as a one shot. I do not currently plan on continuing the story.]


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